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polymergoddess
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Name: polymergoddess
Metro:
Gender: Female
Interests: Writing, drawing, painting, gardening, gourmet cooking, reading, hiking in the desert canyons, partying with my friends, sleeping, having lots of sex.
Occupation: Polymer Engineering
Industry: Manufacturing
Message: message me
Member Since:
4/11/2006
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| I received a request to write about country people. Since I was not raised as a person in the country, the only perspective I could offer was what its like to go from the Midwest suburbs to a region more South than the Deep South. I didn’t want to write something hurtful or offensive either. I decided to simply describe my observations of a region of the United States that turned out to be far different than the one I came from.
Such a perspective would not be complete without describing my first experience with moonshine. I was introduced to it by some good ol’ boys who got it out of the backwoods of Arkansas. I drank it out of a Mason jar while sitting on the tailgate of a pick-up truck. This added some realism to the experience, I believe.
I think the best way to describe a taste is to describe the smell, since they are both related. It tasted like the smell one might expect when pushing rotted, sugary grain extractions through a filthy, sweaty sock in a moldy shack in the rain. Yeah, that about sums it up. Despite the odd flavor, it was surprisingly mild. After the first few sips, my tongue was numb and it may as well have been spring water. I have reason to believe I had a great time, but recall being escorted away from the fray by someone who decided I was on the verge of losing my grasp of proper etiquette and decorum. I am most appreciative, I must add.
The terminology was another interesting observation. Y’all means plural of a group of people. “All y’all’s” is the group of people in possession of something, such as “I have all y’all’s moonshine right here”. Any carbonated soft drink is a Coke, regardless of flavor.
And…..ugh…..there is the sweet tea situation. Where I come from, all tea is served unsweetened where it can be sweetened with those little pink, blue, or white envelopes of white powder. Yes, that is where the sweet lives in the northern states. In the South, tea is pre-sweetened by design. Sure, one can order it unsweetened, and it might even arrive that way. However, if one requests a refill, the server will undoubtedly forget they were an unsweetened tea freak and will give them sweet tea. There is no bigger shock to the unprepared palate than a mouth full of uninvited sugar!
I believe it’s always important not to buy into stereotypes. Sure, they come from sweeping generalizations of a particular demographic, but there are always exceptions that defy expectation. Then….I went to a weekend Flea Market in a small town named, of all things, Waldo. While I didn’t see that infamous bespectacled boy in the striped shirt, I did see a shocking array of every hillbilly stereotype I’d ever known to exist.
I saw mulleted men in pick-up trucks with Harley t-shirts. I saw straw hats and overalls. People chewed on straw and toothpicks. Many were missing teeth. Some looked like Elvis and most of the crowd smoked. Several of the vendors played country music in their booths to a crowd who looked ready to start a hoedown at any moment.
Some shacks along the perimeter had rusted bathtubs and ancient cast iron stoves for sale along with a bevy of other kinds of junk that appeared to have been scavenged from the dump.
Beautiful fruits and vegetables sparkled in the sunshine…….covered in flies. Several vendors sold boiled peanuts, which was something I’d never heard of. I decided to try some and was pleasantly surprised. The nut was soft and seemed to taste more like a salty black-eyed pea.
To balance out my day of discovery, I decided to head to the local mall. There, I saw the other demographic, those with disposable income. Highly-groomed customers shuffled through the stores in search of products to enhance themselves and their lives even more. Signs advertising sales decorated every window. I thought this was kind of interesting considering that in comparison to the wares at the Flea Market, nothing offered on sale here was remotely inexpensive!
This region appears to be very excited about NASCAR. I am sure there is something of interest here. Fast, fancy cars covered in advertisements drive around a large oval for an audience. When I discover what about this creates excitement in so many, I will be sure to report my findings to the masses. For now, however, it will have to remain a mystery to me.
Another curiosity is livestock. Many events surround livestock for entertainment in rodeos and fairs. I’m sure there is something interesting in this pursuit, but the smell has always kept me from going in to find out. Therefore, I will have to rely on the eyewitness accounts of others with tolerant noses to tell me what I’m missing.
I did, however, have some exposure to the presence of farm animals when I stayed at a friend’s house recently. She lives out in the country, surrounded by farms and even a slaughterhouse right across the street from her. I really didn’t want to see the slaughterhouse or even think about what happened in there. Instead, I focused on the beautiful animals dotting the countryside. They made such cute little sounds like something out of Old McDonald. I was enchanted.
I slept peacefully in the fresh, country air. Mmmmmm. Then, about 2 a.m. Mr. Rooster decided to make his presence known. It wasn’t even sunrise! Didn’t this bastard know that he was supposed to make all that noise at dawn? He ended up waking all the other rooster men and before I knew it, they were cocking and doodling all over the place, which in turn woke up the cows.
Needless to say, by 5 a.m., I was very inspired to escort every last one of them to the death row slaughterhouse across the street!
There is a charm to southern living in many ways. The emphasis on family and the home is endearing and cozy. It makes me want to bake a pie and sit down by the fire with some hot coffee while watching the sunset.
Then, I think about those effing roosters and the fantasy pops into a million little bubbles that look like my favorite bespectacled boy named Waldo.
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| It all started when my daughter joined me in Gainesville, FL. I was in a one bedroom apartment the size of a typical hotel room. It took about ten minutes to realize that there was far too much female per square inch in my tiny place. Estrogen spewed in every direction covering the endless products needed to maintain said females. I knew it was time to find ourselves new digs. I ended up in a nice two bedroom apartment near work and moved my daughter in. We even bought a nine foot long inflatable green alligator whom we named Chompy. We were very happy there, myself, the daughter, and Chompy. During the first few days, it was brought to my attention that the school zones had been changed and my daughter was chartered to go to the worst school in the city for both its test scores as well as its drugs and gang problems. The only option was to join the hundreds of other parents begging the school board to allow their child to jump zones and go to the better high schools in town. Since our pal Bush signed the No Child Left Behind law, one of the goals was to keep classrooms and schools from getting overcrowded. My chances were low of being approved for the transfer.....and no bus service would be provided. I decided to snatch the decision out of their hands and move the gang to another apartment in the applicable zone. We settled in after our second move in four weeks time and embarked on a new life in a new land. On the first day of school, the daughter hopped on a school bus full of far too many big, manly males. She was to tell me later that it stopped at a scary, scary apartment complex where the kids stood in a large circle with a cloud of smoke billowing out of the center. I had hoped it was a little campfire for warmth, but I somehow suspect it was not. But she was headed to the GOOD school in town.....the one with the higher test scores.....lower crime problems...... Yes, it would be alright I reminded my self, and Chompy seemed to agree. Saturday night was the first UF Gators game and the city was rockin'. The new neighbors were rockin' too, on both sides of us. Inside, outside, opening doors, slamming doors, screeching tires. Oh yeah. The noise went from cheerful to violent. People screamed in the backyard while other screamed in the front. I finally called the police because things seemed to be getting out of control. They told me that everybody was just excited about the game and if I REALLY felt it was important, they would send someone out to check. (Apparently game days in Gatortown are perfectly acceptable to make excessive noise...because, well, its the Gators ya'll!!) I told him I felt it was VERY IMPORTANT someone come out. More shouting, then sudden silence. The cops must have showed up on the scene. We never heard another word and went to bed that night. Today, when I pulled up to the apartment, my daughter flew out the front door and jumped into the car. Right on cue, a cop came up from nowhere and asked to speak to me. My first thought was, 'oh shit, what did she do?!!' Turned out, he was investigating the incidents of Saturday night that I had called on. Apparently, the residents on our left side were fighting with the residents on our right side. We, of course were in the middle of the war. Left side people broke down the door of the right side people and stabbed someone. The right side people broke the window of the left side people. Of course, everyone was drunk. 'I don't want you to be alarmed, ma'am, this kind of thing NEVER happens here! But I thought you should know since you called about it.' Oh, great. To ease my fear, he said that the knife-wielding left side people would be evicted immediately. Did I feel better? Not really. My daughter, to cheer me up said that she had finally made some friends. Yes, that did cheer me up! Tell me more honey! All of them are male. All of them are upper classmen. One was 18. Two of them asked her out. What?!! 'Didn't you meet any girls?' 'Nope. Just boys, Mom.' My imagination went to the dark places, of course. My daughter, seeing my angst, laughed evilly and said, 'good luck raising me, Mom' Wouldn't you know I also raised a smartass? And if things couldn't get any worse, we discovered that Chompy has been fatally punctured and will no longer be part of the family. Please light a candle for him and may he rest in peace. :( | | |
| Lately, I’ve noticed a trend in the baggage that business men are carrying around. It appears the days of the rectangular briefcase are gone. These days, men carry bags with a shoulder strap on them.
Now, if I’m not mistaken, this is known in most circles as a purse, pocketbook, or handbag.
Does it become something else when a man has it dangling off his body?
I teased a vendor recently about his man purse as we were about to go into his facility for a tour. He didn’t see the humor. I apologized for the slight and changed the description to manned-bag.
He tried really hard not to laugh because he knew I was right.
It’s a laptop bag!, he bellowed.
Then, he ordered me to wait in the car because he didn’t want to be in the company of anyone who thought he carried a purse.
Oh.
Ok.
I stand corrected.
That is……..unless you carry your chapstick in there.
If you do…….then it’s a PURSE!!!! | | |
| I am kind of a newshound and have been watching the headlines lately as it relates to the indiscretions done toward us, the bemoaned taxpayers. I began to kind of look at this realistically. Let me put it into a metaphor: You have a bucket of money in your house that you earned with your hard work. Someone, whom I will call Captain Theftman comes and takes anywhere between 22 and 35% of it depending on how big that bucket is. Captain Theftman takes it without your permission. He may even take more of it without your permission, but with somebody else's permission. Captain Theftman decide to give it to a begging billionaire who needs it to pay millions to his other millionaire friends. When the press finds out that the begging billionaire didn't use it to continue being a billionaire, but instead used it to help his buddies continue being millionaires, much fingerpointing ensues. Everyone decides that you are the one who must be paid back. You have been robbed! {GASP!} The boss of Captain Theftman tells the press how horrible it is that they stole your money and gave it to the begging billionaire for his friends. He demands that you will be paid back one day. Now, when that day comes, will Captain Theftman come to your house and return that money to your bucket? No. Will he stop taking money out of your bucket? No. Will he take less of it for a short time? Perhaps. Will all that money go back into his bucket when and if it is returned? Undoubtedly! So, when every politician bemoans the plight of the taxpayer being scalped, the reality is that its the taxman who is being scalped. We will not see that money returned. It was taken from us without our permission and used for purposes we had no say in deciding. We elected people to talk on our behalf. Look how well that worked out. They argue like little children representing the rich kids and the poor kids. And, they rarely agree, it seems. I think if these people would have merely knocked on my door and asked me how things should have gone, I would have explained this to them. But, alas, they didn't check with me and everybody has an empty bucket except for the begging billionaire and his pals. Oh, and aren't they scheduled to get some more soon? | | |
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Dear Father Time:
I realize that I have been a bad child. I have wasted time when I should have been making the proverbial hay while the sun was shining. I also accept responsibility for not adding that stitch in time to save myself nine.
Because of my reprehensible behavior, I am now behind on all kinds of projects.
Which brings me to you…………
Could you please stop fucking with the clocks?
Just leave them alone so I can keep my sleep schedule the same. Every time you jack around with that hour, I am thrown into a serious tailspin. I’m really tired right now because I couldn’t sleep last night with that sunlight blaring into my retinas. WTF!
The sun is either around when I don’t want it in the spring, or its dark when I want it to be light in the fall.
The residents of Arizona leave their clocks alone. I think they have somehow foiled you.
Since I am bitching you out about the clocks, I have something else to ask you.
Why do you speed the time up when I am enjoying myself and slow it down when I am doing something unpleasant?
Why is the last half hour before quitting time the longest hour of the day? What did you do to it? Is it going backwards or something similarly sinister?
Are you also responsible for those twenty minute traffic lights in my city?
Why do you make the mornings come zooming towards me like the ground after a jump off a building? Are you surprised that I am so damn grouchy because of it?
I have every right. Why did you give me that hour last fall, only to snatch it back yesterday?
You don’t play well with others, do you?
You suck and I think its time for you to retire, you horrible old man!
Love and kisses,
Marilyn | | |
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